


Bite My Tongue

by Naughty_Yorick



Series: A Witcher and a Bard Walk into a Tavern [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Tongue Injury, Truth Serum, Whump, self injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26779225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: And then - it’s been three days, he thinks, of waiting - they approach with a little silver bottle. Jaskier’s spent enough time around sorceresses to recognise it at once.Jaskier is kidnapped - not for the first time. Butthistime, his ability to keep secrets is tested with a truth serum. Unable to stop the words from spilling out, he's forced to take more drastic measures to protect Geralt - as well as Ciri.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: A Witcher and a Bard Walk into a Tavern [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952458
Comments: 27
Kudos: 627





	Bite My Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This fic was originally part of a collection of one-shots, which I'm now splitting into separate fics. If you've already read this: hello! Welcome back. If not, please enjoy!

Jaskier is kidnapped. This is nothing new - been there, done that, he thinks. This isn’t the first time he’s been roughed up, and he knows it won’t be the last. He’s learnt to roll with the punches, knows the best way to stand and the right clothes to wear to make him look _just_ small enough that when he’s set upon - as he so often is - the shock of the force behind the swing of his fist is enough to get a good head-start on whoever’s attacking him.

So he’s been kidnapped, and while he’s got a reputation for being a chattering, fluttering thing he knows when’s best to keep his mouth shut: knows how to say a lot without actually saying anything at all.

And, _usually_ , these things pass - he’s rescued, or they grow bored of him, and he finds himself on the road again, perhaps richer for a couple of scars. But this time is different. There’s less roughing up, for a start - and the little band who’s cornered him look at him with smug, sure smiles.

And then - it’s been three days, he thinks, of waiting - they approach with a little silver bottle. And Jaskier’s spent enough time around sorceresses to recognise it at once.

_Truth serum._

It only takes a few drops to loosen even the most stoic prisoner’s tongue, but they force the whole thing down his throat. He tries to spit it back at them, but they clamp his jaw shut and he’s faced with a choice - swallow it, or choke. 

And then the questions begin.

“Where is Geralt of Rivia?” One asks.

“I don’t know.” That’s true. It’s been six months since they last saw each other - he could be anywhere.

“But you know him? The Butcher of Blaviken?”

“Not the butcher,” he says - because it would be a lie to say yes. “Geralt. He’s Geralt. I know him.”

“You wrote the songs,” says another.

“I wrote the songs.” Another truth. Innocuous - if incriminating. 

“Is he your friend?”

“Yes.” 

“Is he…” a woman extracts herself from the group and stoops in front of him, flashing her teeth in a smirk. “…your lover?”

“No.” The truth potion makes him sound bitter. Perhaps he _is_ bitter. _Don’t ask me anything else, please don’t ask me anything else._

“Where did you last see him?”

He tries to keep the word back, but he can’t overpower the potion.

“Temeria.”

He’s faced with half a dozen matching smirks. He knows what’s coming next - it’s the same questions they always ask - _Where’s he going, who is he with, where’s the princess? Tell us! Where’s Princess Cirilla?_

He can’t tell them. They can’t know. He sets his jaw, and his teeth ache. One of the gang - either the leader, or the bravest, it makes no difference - steps forward.

“Where was he going?" She says, "Where was he headed?”

_Kaer Morhen. The keep. The Witcher’s keep, in the mountains, far away, further away than you can ever go - Kaer Morhen, Kaer Morhen, Ka-_

His mouth is opening of its own accord. He thinks of Geralt, thinks of the last time he saw him. Ciri had been with him, and all Jaskier could think was how startlingly like her grandmother she was. He remembers how Geralt looked that day - exhausted, but happy - happier than he’d seen him in a long time. . No. No - he can’t. 

He _won’t._

He clamps his mouth shut. His aching teeth bite the truth down, trapped and wriggling and soft. He bites down _hard_ , and then there’s pain and the taste of rust and - gods - he’s choking, his mouth is full - 

He coughs hot, sticky blood onto the floor.

His captors jump back - and they’re horrified, he can see it in their faces even though there’s black spots popping in front of his eyes. The last one to speak grimaces before talking again, and there’s disgust mingling with her anger, now.

“Where was he going, bard? Where was Geralt of Rivia going?”

And this time he can’t stop his lips moving, can’t stop the words that rumble up his throat - but they’re hoarse and unclear and his mangled tongue can’t form the shapes anymore. He splatters blood at their feet again and laughs - but the noise sounds weird and wrong. There’s hot blood in his mouth and bile rising up his throat and he knows, truly, that he’s fucked, but it doesn’t matter anymore. They won’t get any more information from him, truth potion or not.

A bandit snarls and steps forward. Their hand goes for the dagger on their belt.

_Do it_ , Jaskier thinks, _do it_. _What else have I got, now?_

He closes his eyes.

And then there’s a horrible, throaty gurgle and a distinct _squelch,_ followed by panicked yelling. His eyes snap back open just in time to duck as a severed hand flies over his head. When he rises, cautiously, he sees him - standing where the six bandits had stood just moments before, bloodied sword in hand.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt bends down, quickly slices through the ropes that bind him. “What did they do?”

Jaskier desperately nods towards the little silver bottle that’s still lying on the floor. Geralt picks it up, gives it a sniff, _realises_ \- 

“Shit. Did they - did _you_ -”

Jaskier shakes his head. He grins, showing off bloodied teeth. He lets his mouth hang open.

“ _Shit_. Jaskier…” 

And then everything goes black.

*

He wakes up in a bed he doesn’t recognise. His mouth is dry, his jaw sore, his tongue swollen and heavy in his mouth. He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep for - how long he’s been lost to the darkness.

He turns, trying to make sense of his surroundings. It’s dark, wherever he is, and quiet - but as he moves he can smell… leather. Horses. Sweat. 

And then - a voice. Someone says his name in a rough, grizzled tongue. Calls out - _he’s awake._

And then another smell - two smells, mingling together, dazzling. Lilac. Gooseberries.

He’s vaguely aware of being moved, of strong hands beneath him and smaller ones on his face, forcing his mouth open. He tastes mint, and his mouth tingles.

And then sleep.

*

He starts to dream. The dreams are a blur of pain and confusion - all horribly raw, horribly real. In his dreams, he cannot lie, and talks and talks and talks until his tongue drops from his mouth and his friends turn away in disgust.

*

_He sleeps._

He wakes.

_He sleeps._

*

His mouth tastes of mint all the time, now, and he’s grown used to the tingling in his gums. His tongue no longer feels heavy - but it doesn’t feel like anything, either. 

In his dreams, he’s singing, and he wakes with tears streaking down his face.

Someone bathes him - he’s aware of warm water lapping at him, and the sensation of a cloth being dragged up and down his back. He lets himself loll against whoever it is. 

*

It feels like he’s falling - like he’s tripped over a root, missed the last stair. He jerks awake with a gasp.

“Jaskier.” Geralt sounds tired. When he turns his head to look at him, he can see he _looks_ tired, too.

Jaskier still feels lightheaded. The lasting effect of the potion, he assumes. No one is supposed to drink that much at once. Jaskier already knows this - and is amazed it hasn’t already killed him. 

He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled cough. He aches all over - the pain centred around his mouth. But the blood is gone, along with the taste of rust. He resists the urge to stick his fingers in there to assess the damage. He stares up at the ceiling, focusing on moving the muscle, rolling it, rubbing the tip along his teeth. It feels bruised, wrong - unwieldy in his mouth. But _whole_. 

There’s someone else in the room - someone just beyond his vision - and the air still smells of lilac and gooseberries. He can guess how he came to be so miraculously healed.

He tries to move from beneath the blanket, but it’s heavy against his chest, pinning down his arms. He feels _weak_ , and the effort of trying to extract himself is too much. Geralt is there almost immediately - he pulls the sheet back, then takes Jaskier’s hand in his. He holds it gently - as if he might break.

“You didn’t tell them anything,” he says. It’s not a question, but Jaskier - the potion still coursing in him - answers anyway.

“Told them… _Geralt_ ,” he wheezes. The word is laboured, but it’s there. He carries on, fighting for every syllable. “And _songs_ … _Temeria_ …” 

That’s all he says. It’s all he _can_ say - it’s the truth, after all.

Geralt’s hazy face swims into view above him. He looks like he’s in pain. 

“Jaskier… you could’ve … your _singing…_ ” He seems to be struggling for words, mirroring Jaskier’s distress. “You might never have sung again.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, but as he speaks Yen tries to cut him off.

“Why di-”

_“The potion, Geralt! It’s only been-”_

“-d you _do that_ to yourself?” 

Jaskier licks his lips - they’re cracked and dry, stinging with every movement. Even if he _could_ lie… he doesn’t want to. Not now.

He tells him.

*

It's been six months since Jaskier felt hot, sticky blood in his mouth.

Kaer Morhen - despite the cold and snow and constant frosts - is truly beautiful: although he supposes he's rather biased.

Geralt was right, in a way, when he'd looked at him with those sad, tired eyes and feared Jaskier would never sing again. He _will_ never sing again - at least, not in the way he used to. Yennefer, before seeing them off, had warned him that the damage was too much - the scars too great. He's had to re-learn how to talk, how to form words around the new landscape of his mouth. But he _has_ re-learnt. On the long trek to the keep, Geralt never once complained about his chattering.

The potion is well worn off, but he supposes he's always been too truthful - always worn his heart upon his sleeve, for those who knew how to read it. He decided on the day he came back, that at least where his heart was concerned, he'd never conceal the truth again. 

He sings, sometimes. He's still learning how to recapture those harmonies, how to spit out syllables like he did before. He only sings to a small audience, now - only one person is allowed to hear his faltering, fledgling attempts to reclaim his voice.

Geralt often finds him in their chambers, the strings of his lute trapped beneath tight, white-knuckled fingers. He listens, patiently leaning on the doorway or settled on the bed, until Jaskier has finished.

"It's good," he says - and Jaskier knows he means it, somehow: even though the lyrics are muffled. 

In those first few, confusing weeks Jaskier often wonders - bitterly - how all this magic would taste upon his old tongue, upon that dancing, trilling tool he used to use so well. But now, buried beneath furs and wrapped each night in strong, scarred arms, he understands that, perhaps, there's more of him that's worthy of such love.

In another six months - in a year - in five years - he'll sing again. He'll step onto the stage once more.

But now, amongst the snowdrifts and the laughter of the hidden princess and the constant clatter of training witchers, he's content in his silence. 


End file.
